Chapter 21
We’re two days away from the wedding, and my anxiety’s starting to show.
It’s not that I have doubts. There’s zero question about whether I want to marry Emma. She’s it. She’s everything. There’s no one else for me—never will be.
But that’s not what’s eating me alive. What’s got me spiraling is time—time running out before my dad figures it out.
He hasn’t said anything, but there’s something in his eyes lately. That sharp, narrowing look he gets when he’s sniffing out a secret.
He knows something.
I told Emma maybe we should move the date up—just slip it in sooner, before the walls close in. She pressed her hand over mine, shook her head. Said the church was booked. Said everything would be fine.
I wanted to believe her. I tried. But damn—it’s hard.
Last night, I told Silas the plan.
His reaction? A dry laugh, eyes wide, head shaking. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
Yeah. I am. Out of my mind for her. And I don’t care. Screw my family, their money, their power-hungry legacy. I’m not living their version of life—cold, loveless, polished and poisonous.
“LUCA!” My dad’s voice booms through the house, rattling the walls like thunder.
I tense, shoulders locking. The book in my hands nearly snaps in half from how hard I’m gripping it. When Thomas Walker calls, you don’t shout What?! back. You drop what you’re doing and go. Immediately.
I set the book down carefully, forcing my fingers to uncurl, and head for his office.
Mom’s already there, arms folded tight across her chest, hip angled against his desk. That signature look of disapproval is fixed on her face, like perfume she never takes off.
Dad stands behind the desk, posture ramrod straight, eyes blazing. Rage ripples off him, barely leashed.
“What the hell is this?” he snarls, hurling a letter across the desk.
It skids toward me. I step forward, pick it up with steady hands that don’t feel steady at all.
Dear Luca Walker,
We are pleased to inform you that you’ve been admitted to our Philosophy and Literature program…
The words blur. My chest tightens. My pulse bangs against my ribs. I look up—straight into the storm.
“It’s an acceptance letter,” I say, voice calm, measured. I set it gently back on the desk like it might detonate.
Mom clicks her tongue, her chin tilting higher. Dad’s glare sharpens, cutting.
“You think this is funny?”
“Not at all.” I clasp my hands behind my back, a soldier under fire. “You asked me what it was. I answered.”
He slams his palm against the desk. The crack echoes. Mom flinches. I don’t. My jaw locks. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing applying to these damn hippie programs, but it stops now,” he growls, teeth bared. “You’re going to the Business School like your brother, and you’ll work at Property Group. Just like I planned. Since the day you were born.”
He grabs the letter, crumples it in one furious fist, and hurls it into the trash.
“Say it out loud. I want to hear it.”
Mom watches me closely, eyes gleaming with a strange thrill, like she’s waiting for blood. Sometimes I swear she enjoys watching him break us.
Two choices. Blow this whole thing up and risk him tearing down the wedding, my future, Emma. Or shut my mouth for forty-eight more hours.
Two more days.
So I grit my teeth until my jaw aches and say it. “I’m going to Business School. I’ll work at Property Group.”
He nods once, curt, satisfied. “Good. Now get out.”
I turn sharply, heels clicking against the hardwood. My fists are clenched so tight, my nails cut half-moons into my palms.
Oliver passes me in the hallway, says something light, teasing. I don’t hear a word. My vision tunnels.
Get to your room. Get to your room. Get to your damn room.
I make it. I shut the door softly, controlled. My chest heaves.
My father has no idea how much rage I’ve stored over the years. No clue how close I am to cutting this all off for good.
But soon he’ll find out. Soon he’ll know.
Because in two days, I’ll be a married man.
And there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop me.